Some Days
by stagepageandscreen
Summary: "I can't do it anymore, Ferre," Enjolras whispered, the words hurting his brain, feeling sharp and unfamiliar coming out of his mouth. "It's…too…too heavy.""You don't have to carry it alone, mon cher," Combeferre murmured as he rose. "You are never alone in this fight, you must always remember that." Friendship fluff as a late Barricade Day contribution.


**10/6/14**

**A/N A very late contribution to Barricade Day 2014. Enjoy!**

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**Some Days**

The wind was cold, far colder than was usual for late May, and the rain had an icy chill to it often associated with coming snow. The cobbles were slick with bouncing raindrops and water poured from the mismatched, rolling roofs in torrents. Through the middle of this spring soaking hurried two young men, holding leather satchels filled with heavy books over their heads in a hopeless attempt at protection against the elements.

Rounding a corner at a fast pace, spluttering raindrops from his lips, one of the men lost his footing, the smooth soles of his boots finding it impossible to keep a grip on the wet street. With a small cry of shock he thudded to the ground, jarring his shoulder and hip painfully. His bag flew from his grasp to land in a deep, dirty puddle.

"Enjolras!" the other man exclaimed, skidding to a precarious stop beside his fallen friend. "Are you hurt?"

Enjolras scrambled to his feet, tearing his bag from the filthy water but knowing it was too late to save the majority of the contents. A crushing wave of exhausting frustration rushed through him, catching in his throat from the sheer ferocity of it. "I am well," he bit out from between gritted teeth, ignoring the twinge of pain in his hip as he forced himself to move on. "There is, however, no point in me trying to hurry home to avoid getting wet; I am already soaked. You go on ahead, keep a little drier, and I shall follow at a pace more suited to the…" – a rueful grimace – "lack of grip on my boots."

"Nonsense," Combeferre countered. "Don't be so foolish as to think I cannot see that you are limping. You twisted you ankle, I imagine?"

"My hip," Enjolras replied reluctantly, the cold rain slithering coldly down his collar causing him to try and walk a little faster. "It is nothing I cannot manage."

"I shall inspect the damage when we get home," Combeferre insisted, peering closely at his friend through spectacles blurred by raindrops, hearing the slight dullness in the younger man's voice that inevitably meant that he was battling with some weighty internal problem.

By the time the two young men reached their place of abode, a somewhat ramshackle house lost deep within a dirty tangle of streets, they were both wet to the skin and shivering violently. Once safely sheltered inside Combeferre shook the water from his face, looking somewhat like a bedraggled dog, and bounded up the stairs to the second floor, shouting back that he would get the fire burning again. Enjolras followed at a slightly more sedate pace, his bruised hip beginning to seize and throb from the cold and the pain.

He had nearly reached his apartment when a gruff voice shouted from down below.

"Enjolras! Hey, Enjolras boy! Is that you?"

Enjolras was more than tempted to ignore his notably disagreeable and hostile landlord but before he could stagger the final few stairs to safety he heard the threatening thud of footsteps stamping up the stairs behind him.

"Oh, it is you." The man yawned, then coughed briefly before spitting a large glob of yellowish mucus down into the stairwell below.

Enjolras attempted not to let his disgust show but almost certainly failed. "How may I help you, Monsieur Neige?" he inquired stiffly, trying to ignore the shivers wracking his sodden body and thinking longingly of the fire Combeferre was no doubt stoking back to life even now.

"You owe me the cost of those repairs I did last week," the landlord grumbled. "Not all of us have an allowance from their father to keep us in luxury."

Enjolras reflected dryly that the apartment he rented from the man could hardly be described as luxurious and that the 'repairs' his landlord had carried out had done very little to block the hole in the roof that would no doubt now be leaking water down into the strategically placed bucket balanced on his bed. The thought sent a wave of hopeless exhaustion crashing over him; if he was to get any sleep he would have to heave his bed into a another location and then attempt to ignore the steady drip, drip, drip of the water all night long.

"I shall bring you the money tomorrow, Monsieur," he promised wearily, the frustration rising yet again upon the realization that he probably would now be unable to afford to get the new batch of pamphlets made or pay the seamstress who sewed their tricolour rosettes.

The distasteful Neige grumbled wordlessly in reply as he lumbered down the rickety stairs, the structure shaking in protest of his graceless bulk. Enjolras silently released a breath, the weight that constantly hung from his shoulders seeming to double, nay triple, pulling him down, crushing him, smothering him until he was nothing but a crushed, hopeless mess to be trod upon.

He wavered on his feet, everything all at once seeming to be too much to carry. All of those people, all of those problems, all of the work that he still needed to complete both at university and outside of it. His vision wavered, rippled, and his hip was throbbing. He was wet, he was cold…and he just couldn't do it anymore.

His knees buckled and he found himself sat upon the stairs, freezing cold but unable to ascent the last few feet to warmth and comfort. Like a leaden weight his head dropped to his hands and stayed there. The blood thumped dully in his ears, blood that was so often alight with passion, crackling with ideas and hope. Every beat reminded Enjolras of the sound of drums, impersonal, ominous execution drums rapping out the same two words over and over.

"_No. More._" it seemed to say. "_No. More."_

"Enjolras?" Combeferre's head appeared out the door a few stairs up, concern colouring his tone. A moment later Enjolras heard the stairs creak as his friend descended and then the warmth of an arm around his shoulders.

"Come on now, mon ami," Combeferre coaxed. "We need to get you warm and dry before you catch cold. Can't have that silver tongue silenced by a fever, can we?"

"I can't do it anymore, Ferre," Enjolras whispered, the words hurting his brain, feeling sharp and unfamiliar coming out of his mouth. "It's…too…too heavy."

The medical student placed a gentle kiss to his friend's forehead, taking the opportunity to test for the beginnings of a fever, feeling grateful when he found none. "You don't have to carry it alone, mon cher," he murmured as he rose, lifting Enjolras with him. "You are never alone in this fight, you must always remember that."

They staggered up the final few stairs and into the apartment, Enjolras instantly feeling the warmth of the renewed fire on his chilled skin. Tenderly, as if dealing with one of his child patients, Combeferre helped removed the sodden jacket, waistcoat, cravat, and shirt that clung wetly to Enjolras, passing him a coarse but dry towel to chafe some warmth back into the porcelain pale skin.

"It's too big, though," Enjolras slurred, eyelids hung low over dull azure eyes. "We can't do anything, not really." He flopped onto the threadbare sofa and began to tug off his clammy boots, rubbing a thumb ruefully over the smooth sole. "I feel as I am leading you all off a cliff, or into quicksand. I pretend to know where I'm going, to know what I'm doing, but really…"

Combeferre placed a pile of warm dry clothes down on the sofa, a frown lining his face, hazel eyes narrowed in confused worry as he watched his friend strip off his drenched trousers and slip a dry nightshirt over his head.

Slowly, he knelt beside Enjolras, the young man he had only known for a couple of years and yet felt closer to him than a brother.

"Any difference we make is better than none, Julien," he said softly. "Every step towards utopia is a step in the right direction. We must not lose faith, not in the cause, not in each other, or we will fall apart." He carded a tentative hand through the spun-sunlight curls before him, trying to pass on his reassurance through touch. "I know that some days it feels too heavy," he whispered, "that some days you feel as if the world is balanced on your shoulders; that some days you want to throw it all away and shout '_No more'_." A brief image of one of his child patients flew through his mind; a little girl of five who had died in his arms not two days before. "What I am trying to say, dear friend, is that I know how you feel."

Enjolras looked up at him, uncertainty showing clearly in a face that normally looked so stern but certain. He looked so very, very young. "It's too heavy today, Ferre," he said. "I can't…do it all." His hands fluttered in silent frustration. "There's too much."

"No one said you had to micromanage a revolution," Combeferre teased gently, a subtle reprimand hidden in the words. "The Amis and myself are more than capable of relieving you of some of your work load."

"But they already have so much to do!" Enjolras burst out. "These are _my _responsibilities. It is not fair for me to burden someone else with my troubles."

"That is what friends are for," Combeferre said softly, handing over a soft pair of sleeping trousers. "Friends are for days like this, when it's all too much to carry on your own." He rested a hand on the now warm shoulder beside him. "Let us help you, mon frère."

For a brief moment Enjolras smiled at him, the cloud lifting from his eyes. The weight on his shoulders lifted, only a little, but lifted none the less, and the pounding of his blood was now a call to arms once more. "Thank you," he murmured, allowing the silence to engulf them for a moment. But, as ever, he could not bear to see time wasted and he soon rose, busying himself with draping his clothes over the fire to dry, steam billowing off the fabric.

"I have some work due tomorrow that has no doubt been damaged by the rain," he said, rifling through his bag. "I was wondering if you would mind reading what you can out to me so I can rewrite it?"

"Of course," Combeferre acquiesced with a smile, pushing his spectacles up his nose. As his friend, this shining Apollo, this ambitious Icarus sat down to work, Combeferre allowed his own worries to loosen a little. Because he knew that although some days it seemed too much, it was moments like these that made ever hardship and fear worthwhile.

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**A/N Aw, friendship fluff. Hope you enjoyed and leave me a review!**

**Until next time, mes amis!**

**Libz**


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